by Mary Calvi
“You look like a princess, my dear Polly.” Susannah’s face brightened. “You remind me of Princess Florine awaiting her charming.”
“Miss Polly! Miss Polly!” little Lulu piped. Mary turned toward her. “You telled me that fairy’s tale.”
Mary reached over and gently tapped her on the top of her head. “Lulu, you remembered.”
“Prince Charmin’ don’t care ’bout no curses.” The girl motioned a swat with her hand.
Mary adored the child. “Would you like me to read it again to you on my next visit?”
Lulu’s whole face smiled, even her freckled nose.
It was one of Mary’s favorite stories. The tale by Madame d’Aulnoy told of a handsome Prince Charming who had been cursed and transformed into a bluebird because of his love for a sweet-hearted princess who had been hidden away from the world. He traveled in flight for years in search of his true love.
“‘Bird, with wings of heaven’s blue,’” Susannah began, reciting the tale. “‘Haste to where I wait for you.’ My sister, your charming is dressed in heaven’s blue.”
“Please tell me he arrives not covered in feathers,” Mary replied.
Susannah laughed. Lulu covered her mouth so as not to let out giggles, but a few high-pitched ones escaped.
“Come. Look at the beauty you’ve become.” Susannah helped her sister to the mirror. The gentle rustling of gowns could be heard. “Impossible it will be for him to have eyes for anyone else than so captivating a belle.”
Mary stood staring into a full-length mirror. Her reflection presented a dewy face in a glimmering dress. Her cheeks were rosy, her hair fancy, her shoulders shiny, her shoes colorful, her posture in proper position. Today she most certainly looked like Florine coming out of hiding. She knew what she really was—madness in elegant clothing.
Susannah moved her to the doorway to exit her chamber. As Mary approached the stairwell, she could hear Frederick one floor below, making one toast too many. She was well aware this was on account of her being delayed to greet the guests.
“To Colonel Washington. May you continue to show greatness against our enemy combatants.”
“To the officers of the South. May you continue to commit your service for all.”
“To the New York dignitaries. May your work continue to make our colony a symbol of greatness.”
“For the weather—”
When he started a toast to the temperature, the guests began to sound restive, seemingly anxious to enter the dining room, where Temperance’s feast awaited.
“May winter continue to remain mild and dry in our Yonkers to allow for safe and comfortable travel.”
As he started one more toast, Mary hurriedly moved to the staircase. She heard a loud gasp coming from the guests. The musicians stopped playing. She took a deep breath, kept her shoulders back, and pinched the front of her dress to keep it from catching on her shoes. She placed one foot slowly below the other. She could feel a man’s gaze upon her, his eyes slaying her, as if sending an arrow straight to her heart. A glimpse of him was all she could handle. He stood strong and tall, a striking figure in his azure coat with its golden accents at the shoulders. His hair, untouched by powder, was neatly pulled back, showing the strength of his features. The color of his eyes she did not see. What are the color of his eyes? she wondered. The view of him was ever so quick. She had a desire for another look, but she wouldn’t dare look again.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Polly Philipse,” Frederick announced. She recognized that smile of his. She’d made her brother proud. The room resounded with a burst of applause. Tonight she quite liked that Frederick was introducing her. It had been years. Had it been since that affair when she was just a child? Yes. She remembered. Her brother announced her that day … at the banquet. Her mother told her to stay put. Why did she run? Her brother, yes, he was the one to say her name. She could remember it now. He was young then. That was before. Before the hour that changed everything.
Like a storm cloud rolling in, the odor of hair powdering—the mix of wheat flour and fine white clay—ignited an inner upheaval. She paused on the third step.
Please, Mary, don’t collapse, her mind begged her.
A sea of eyes was upon her. The images that she feared most reemerged. She was afraid. The waves. The slippery earth. If she had only reached for the flower …
She drew quick breaths.
Not again. Not tonight. “There will be no what-ifs.” She heard her sister’s voice in her head.
“Protect. Save.” She remembered what her father had told her. “As a beacon in the darkness. Be the light.”
The bright and lively interlude of “The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba” by Handel began to play. Sir Tenoe’s face—she could see the dancing master at the back of the crowd. He stood there looking proudly at her. His scar shone clear from the light of the window. At least do this for him. Mary focused on Tenoe’s scar as she continued her descent to the grand foyer. Not a person’s face turned from her, including the hero’s. She could see him looking, out of the corner of her eye. She hoped her expression did not give away too much of her inner struggle. Her brother received her at the base of the stairs and walked her to the man of honor this evening.
There he was, the hero of the South before her. How handsome he looked. How brave.
“Colonel George Washington, may I introduce you to my dear sister.”
“Miss Mary Eliza Philipse.” The colonel used her birth name as few ever did.
Her eyes remained on his shoes. Not a speck of mud.
He placed his hand below hers, rugged to dainty. She felt him bring her hand to his lips. She raised her eyes to his.
“Your presence affords me unspeakable pleasure.”
Blue.
His eyes were blue, with a hint of gray.
The feel of his lips was upon her right hand. How thankful she was that in her haste she had forgotten to slip on her lace gloves. With his warm breath on her bare skin, she decided if she could remain here in this very position for her entire life, she would be contented.
She realized she would have to respond to his greeting with words, if she could find them. She hadn’t thought of a response. She knew much about him from reading his journal over and over. She could have recited every line of his writings. A plan should have been made for this moment. There was not. So, with dimpled cheek, she curtsied unhurriedly, trying to regain some type of composure.
You must say something, she thought. Her eyes shifted to the ground. If they had done justice to her state of mind, they would have revealed abounding passions. “And it is my presence to be in your pleasure, Colonel Washington.”
Teeth. He had a wide mouth and his eyes smiled along with his lips. Like a prince, a charming prince. Her charming: Had he arrived? Maybe it was the sweet music, or perhaps it was his blue eyes locked on her, or maybe his strength—which gave her the feeling that he could protect her for an eternity—that made her tingly.
The two, side by side, began their walk to the dining room as the bells were rung for the banquet.
“Mary.” His face, she noticed, carried a square jaw, as she had imagined. “What a charming name.”
The tingle stretched from the top of her head down to her toes when he used the word charming.
“It is the name of my mother,” he went on. “The most beautiful woman I’ve ever known.”
She wondered if the surprise showed on her face, because she was surprised that a military commander would speak of his mother with such praise. “How fortunate I am to carry the same name.”
“The sum of who I am I owe to my mother. I attribute my success in life to the moral, intellectual, and physical education I received from her.”
“My mother’s presence is always close to my heart,” said Mary. “I hold her memory with the greatest affection.” They walked a few more steps in quiet, until Mary felt the need to speak to break the momentary silence. She looked down. “My mother would
have admired your shoes.”
* * *
AN HEIRESS STANDING before him. The belle of the North. Glorious as love. George paused to take in her delightful face, her tender voice, her pleasant manner, her delicate hands, the gentleness of her dark eyes. It seemed she had no idea how lovely she was. How could it be that she carried not a hint of coquetry?
Mary Eliza Philipse.
He decided right then and there that he had never met a lady like her before. He wondered if men lost portions of their hearts to women like her. “A fair-faced vision who carries the scent of wildflowers”—Captain Stewart was correct in his assessment. She smelled as if she had been lying in a garden of lavender blooms. He enjoyed the thought of it. Her complexion, fair and smooth, glowed. Her lips carried a luster of reddish tone. Shiny waves tumbled over her round and quite shimmery shoulders. She carried a softened shape, just as his men described, which looked as if nature had formed it from a perfect mold. Her waist was so small, it seemed his fingers would touch if he wrapped his hands around it. Her gown was highly ornamented, though she needed no embellishment. Her natural grace alone was enough.
George gazed at her once more, trying not to let his eyes linger on her face for longer than appropriate. He realized he did not know of her mother’s passing. His secretary, Kirkpatrick, had assured him he provided every detail—her education level, her circle of friends, her properties. Clearly, he had not learned enough.
The banquet room was masterly appointed for the occasion, decorated with deep red and blue flower bouquets and with affluence displayed in every direction he looked. The beauteous one stepped in first and motioned to a chair at the head of the table, to where his back would be to the hearth. It would not have been his choice of a seat, as he always followed his rule: Set not yourself at the upper of the table; but if it be your due or that the master of the house will have it so, contend not, lest you should trouble the company.
His eyes remained on her as he was seated in a fancifully carved mahogany chair with such an extreme polish that it appeared wet. Then he faced the table, which was so laden with dishes, it was impossible to see a square inch of the table covering. Set in the most orderly fashion were blue-and-white porcelain plates with gold lining the rims. Each was filled with extravagant fare. Small dishes—there must have been more than fifty of them—covered the table. The loaf of oysters grabbed his attention.
How his life had changed. Tonight he was dining with the most well-to-do family in New York, quite possibly the wealthiest family across all of the colonies. It was not long ago that dining meant using a forked stick to cook food hunted from the woods and a large chip of bark acted as his plate.
“Are you comfortable in your seating by the fire?” Beverley asked, taking his seat.
“Humbled and quite appreciative.” George moved his chair closer to the table. “Happy’s he that gets the berth nearest the flame.”
“Have your other hosts not treated you with polite attention?” Frederick’s brow furrowed as he sat down.
“My journey has been an arduous one.”
“Arduous?” inquired Frederick.
“At times I had not slept above three nights or four in succession in a bed. I would lay down upon a little hay straw fodder or bearskin whichever was to be had…”
Frederick raised his glass of Madeira to make another toast. “Let your days ahead be filled with hospitality and friendship. To the hero of the South!”
“Hear! Hear!” The guests raised their glasses to salute him. The heiress, sitting next to Frederick, did so as well. George’s thoughts turned to the feel of her smooth skin on his lips.
“Let us enjoy the banquet before us,” announced Frederick.
The mix of delicious aromas whetted his appetite. George had not eaten since the journey began at dawn. He was eager to satisfy his hunger. As he brought oysters to his tongue, one rule of civility proved challenging: Put not another bite into your mouth till the former be swallowed. Let not your morsels be too big for the jowls. Bite by bite, each magnificent taste finally settled his cravings. Tonight, though, he hoped hunger would be appeased not just in his stomach; it had been so long since he felt a woman’s touch.
This night ’twas truly a feast for his senses.
The sounds of tinkling crystal interrupted his thinking. His glass was filled to the rim immediately after each sip. The dishes were cleared. To his astonishment, new plates of blue-and-white porcelain were set down. He’d believed dinner was completed. A suckling pig was placed at the head of the table, a dressed goose at the foot, and along the table’s edges sat four roasted chickens. In the center were trays of crayfish, shrimp, and stewed dishes of hare, duck, boar, and lamb. Add to those, additional plates of pickled mackerel, mashed potatoes topped with a ragoo, partridges with truffles, and breads of many kinds. George was urged by Frederick to try the catsup.
“May we add our congratulations on your promotion, Colonel Washington,” said Frederick. “We are glad to hear of your accolades in His Majesty’s Army.”
“Your success and good fortune are the toasts of every table, Colonel,” Beverley added. “Every officer, I hear, is willing to venture under your command.”
“Be not deceived,” said George. “I do not believe myself equal to such an appointment.”
“Is there a place for you and your companies to feast?” Frederick took a buttered biscuit.
“The men must prepare their meals in their barracks. Each is equipped with a kettle and not much more for cooking.”
The heiress appeared astonished by his comment.
“Where have they set your post?” questioned Frederick.
“In Winchester. I have been honored to form a regiment made up of sixteen companies there.”
The color of rose juxtaposed against ivory as a gentle blush bloomed on the belle’s cheeks.
“Where have you arrived from this day?” she asked.
He listened to how she pronounced each word, with a sweet inflection at the end of the question. “We were stopped at Laurel Hill.”
“Laurel Hill?” Her radiant face tilted.
“Of New Jersey,” he replied, “but not to gather laurels, except of the kind which cover the mountains.” It was a pun, and not a very good one at that. Still, Mary Eliza Philipse smiled.
* * *
THE DINNER PLATES were cleared away, as was the tablecloth. A new fabric that sent up a scent of mint replaced it. Then came dessert. Trumpets led a procession. A chef wearing a toque and sporting a curled mustache entered with cooks carrying plate after plate of confections. Three dozen types of sugary eatables, maybe more, were presented for the guests to try. Tipsy cakes, pies of gooseberry, orangeado, plum, cherry, and every type of pudding made their way into the dining room.
The chef then explained in a French accent the next dish he was carrying—enticing snowballs. George ate not one but two. He made note, as well, of the numerous French-speaking attendants. It seemed the family paid no mind to the war. In addition, every race was represented in the household; a female cook entered and walked directly to the heiress, with a small bowl of pudding.
Mary Eliza Philipse gave her an appreciative look.
George watched closely as the heiress kindly smiled and whispered, “I thank you. The desserts, the feast, all divine.”
“As is the company,” the lady quietly responded.
The guests arose upon completion of their feast and, led by Frederick, were escorted out of the room. Mary Eliza Philipse waited in her chair. George, with belly full and spirit soaring, approached her. With a shy smile, she placed her hand inside his arm, which he had outstretched to receive her.
* * *
GEORGE’S SMILE PIERCED Mary like a fork into sugar cake. Not a hint of vanity was demonstrated in his countenance.
Colonel George Washington.
She realized she had never met another man like him in all her life.
Her favorite aria from Handel’s opera Radamisto was b
eing performed in the music room.
“Do you play?” she asked.
“An instrument?”
She found this funny. She nodded.
“I cannot raise a single note on any one of them.”
How honest of him, she thought. “And there is not a tutor in New York who would feel pride in naming me a student under his tutelage.” She would be truthful as well. “Of this, I am confident.”
The aria was reaching its apex. As the countertenor lingered over the words la vendetta, he seemed to unleash a revenge on the song itself. In overemotional fashion, a tear came to the singer’s eye as he presented the chorus in a sensational manner.
“Nothing is more agreeable, and ornamental, than good music. Of what is he singing?”
“The name of it is ‘Ombra Cara,’” she answered. “An enchanting woman survives death after being thrown into furious waters. She tries to escape a tyrannical ruler who desires to possess her as a city is burned to the ground in a war over her affection.”
“Quite a tale.”
“In the end, the strings intertwine and suddenly, her first love, her true, returns for her.”
“The power of melody. It is enough to soothe even the ferocity of the wild beast.”
“Love, too, can wash away the dust of the soul with just one note.” What was she saying? Why would you twice use the word love? she questioned herself. It must have been the wine. Mary had already had more than a glassful while dining.
She was thankful for her cousins walking toward her. Eva carried herself in an attractive blue-green gown that outspread wide below the waist. Silk bows lined the top of it. Her hair was worn in a tuck-and-cover style, where the thin floral crown showed in the front but was wrapped with her dark hair around the back. The rest of her waves hung down. Their cousin Margaret appeared exquisite with her blond, almost white, loose curls, some placed atop her head, the others flowing down her back. Her ivory skin was as flawless as her choice of a silk gown in a pale pink fabric with hand-embroidered bleeding heart flowers throughout.